Songs of Innocence: The thrilling third book in the Hannah Weybridge series

by Anne Coates

  “So why a supply teacher?” She really wanted to ask, “Are you Sherlock?” But she thought she would sound ridiculous. She was waiting for him to give her the clues she needed.

  He smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose again. “I like to travel and like this I’m not committed. It gives me the best of both worlds – a job I love and time for other things.”

  Hannah wondered how he financed his travels but didn’t like to ask. She was horrified when Jude addressed her from across the table, “Aren’t you the journalist who discovered her friend murdered in that big church in Waterloo?”

  There was an awkward silence; all eyes on Hannah. She swallowed a large gulp of wine. “Yes I am.”

  “So you also wrote the article about trafficked Somali girls?” Hannah nodded. Jude raised her glass to her. “Thank you. That exposé was very powerful to read and you saved a number of girls, or so I heard.”

  “Jude works in social services,” Linda said.

  “For my sins.” She smiled. “Anyway, good on you.”

  Rob looked across at her. “I read your piece on the poor girl who drowned in Peckham Park. Good thing the family got that second post mortem done.”

  “Yes it was.” Hannah was relieved that no one reading her article would have known how involved she’d been in advising the aunt.

  “Dessert?” Linda stood up and cleared the plates. To Hannah’s surprise, Mike stood and took them from her while she picked up the serving dishes.

  Wine, good food and interesting company diverted Hannah’s thoughts from Paul and why he had killed himself. She was thankful now that she hadn’t told Linda and David. It had been an age since she’d been invited to a proper dinner party. No one, it seemed, wanted an extra woman at their table. She could almost forgive Linda for inviting Mike. Almost.

  ***

  As they were moving on to more comfortable seats, Jude said, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to discover your friend’s death like that.”

  They sat down next to each other on a sofa. “Linda mentioned that you might be looking into Asian girls going missing. I might be able to help.” She gave Hannah her card then joined in the general conversation which had moved on to what would happen in the Labour party leadership.

  Just as Hannah was leaving, Mike offered to walk her home.

  “It’s only round the corner, not far at all.” Hannah tried to dissuade him.

  “Then it won’t take me out of my way.”

  They said goodbye to their hosts. Hannah was surprised to see him unlock a bike from the side gate but made no comment. She wondered what he would say now they were on their own but he remained silent until they reached her door. She could sense he was eyeing up her security arrangements.

  He waited for her to unlock the door, standing closer than Hannah felt comfortable with.

  “Thank you for walking me home. Goodnight.”

  Mike leaned towards her and for one awful moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he said so quietly she almost didn’t catch his words, “It wasn’t suicide.” Hannah stared at him. “Paul Montague didn’t kill himself.” And then he was on his bike and speeding away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Hannah had spent most of the night with Mike’s words going round and round in her head. “It wasn’t suicide. Paul Montague didn’t kill himself.” And, of course, the big question: how did he know? And what did he know?

  Should she contact him? Linda presumably had a telephone number for him. Eventually she fell into a disturbed sleep. In the morning she couldn’t remember her dreams but the dread they had caused remained like a storm cloud hovering above her. Damn Mike Smith – Sherlock – or whoever he was.

  She phoned Linda who teased her when she asked for Mike’s number after thanking her for dinner.

  “My little ploy worked then?”

  “No, there’s something he mentioned that I want to ask him about.”

  “Oh yes…” Linda didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway sorry to disappoint you but I don’t have his number. I invited him at school. But I’ll ask him for it tomorrow.”

  Hannah had to be satisfied with that. And tomorrow she’d also contact DI Claudia Turner to see if she had any information.

  “We all have our secrets, as you well know.” Lady Celia Rayman was replying to Hannah’s comment that she thought Sunita Kumar was holding something back from her. Celia smiled at Mary who was dressing a doll with Elizabeth on the settee.

  Hannah sipped her coffee. She and Elizabeth had been invited for Sunday lunch. Mary had prepared a delicious roast with an array of tempting dishes for Elizabeth to try. And the toddler was determined to charm her hosts. Fortunately she’d slept in the cab on the way over so she was on her best behaviour.

  They were in the room Hannah had visited so many times before. A room that had borne witness to confessions and revelations. But there was a difference now. The furniture was all the same, as was the layout. But there was a subtle change in the atmosphere that Hannah hadn’t expected. A lightness. A huge portrait of Liz that had been completed by an artist using photographs, hung above the mantelpiece. It was astonishing and captivated Liz in all her beauty and complexity. Hannah found her attention drawn to it time and again.

  “How did you first meet Sunita, Celia?”

  Lady Rayman considered this. “About ten years ago, I think, wasn’t it Mary?”

  Mary looked up, her hand resting on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Yes I think so. Some fundraising event you went to at the Indian embassy. She was there with her brother.”

  “That’s right. It was after those appalling floods and landslides which wiped out several villages and they were raising money for the survivors. There was an auction.”

  “Yes we donated one of the Turner sketches– a minor work but the name sold it. Always hated the thing myself.” Mary’s attention went back to Elizabeth and doll-dressing.

  Celia looked thoughtful. “There was something about her. Sunita. A sadness. No, maybe not sadness exactly but a sense of resignation. Anyway who are we to talk?”

  “The loss of her niece has hit her particularly hard. She was vehement that she hadn’t committed suicide. And it seems she was right, of course.”

  “They were very close. Lovely girl. Brought her here once or twice.”

  “They were so alike,” Mary said, almost to herself. “It was as though Sunita poured all her maternal instincts into the child.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t marry?” Hannah said charmed by the image of Mary and Elizabeth playing together. It made her think of her own parents and what they were missing.

  “Her fiancé was killed. Then she came to England. Maybe she just didn’t meet anyone to mend her heart.”

  “So how long ago was this?”

  Celia looked at Hannah, her expression unreadable. “I really don’t know. You’ll have to ask her if you think it’s important. But tread lightly, dear. We know we can trust you but Sunita doesn’t know why or our story. She may have her own reasons for being circumspect.”

  Elizabeth trotted over and stood imperiously in front of Celia. “CC–” the child’s attempt at Lady Rayman’s name. “Cuddle!” and with that she hoisted herself into the older woman’s lap and snuggled into her arms. Celia smiled down at her and in that moment Hannah was reminded of how much Celia had lost. A daughter and an unborn grandchild.

  “Now little Miss, shall we see if we can find somewhere cosy for you to have a little nap?”

  Elizabeth slid to the floor and took the proffered hand.

  “Don’t you drop off too, dear,” Mary said as they left the room. Celia didn’t reply but murmured something and Elizabeth giggled.

  Hannah smiled across at Mary. “How are you both?” she asked once the door had closed.

  “Taking a day at a time. It’s hard but people have been very kind. Liz was a very special person and not just to us. So the charity is ou
r way of coping and paying tribute to her. Keeping her close to us.”

  Hannah nodded. She had been invited to the launch of The Elizabeth Rayman Trust but was a little peeved that she hadn’t been asked to join them as a trustee. Maybe she reminded them of how Liz had died? Or perhaps they didn’t see her as trustee material?

  “And what about you?” Mary gave her a hug. “Any news from Tom?”

  “Yes, in fact he had a meeting in London and tagged on a few days leave so he surprised me last weekend with a trip to Brighton. It was good to get away for a couple of days. Elizabeth loved paddling in the sea.”

  “And?” There was a look of concern on Mary’s face that the younger woman couldn’t fathom.

  “Whatever he’s been working on in New York is due to finish soon and then he should be back in London. We’ll have to see what we’ll see.” Hannah thought about confiding in her about the overheard telephone conversation but decided that would be unfair. She had other, less palatable news to impart.

  “Mary – there is something I have to tell you…” Hannah scratched at her hand.

  “Just me?” She looked puzzled.

  Hannah smiled at a memory that replayed in her mind. “I remember Liz saying that whenever she had to tell her mother some bad news she’d go to you first. Of course I didn’t understand why, then.”

  “So tell me.” Mary too smiled at her own memories.

  “Paul is dead. He committed suicide in prison.”

  May looked aghast. “Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s not all. I’ve been told, warned, that he didn’t kill himself. He was murdered to silence him. It might not be true but it would mean…”

  “It means there are still people out there who are linked to Liz’s murder.” Mary stood up, walked to the window and stared out into the street. Hannah was torn between going over to her and not intruding. She chose the latter. Eventually the older woman returned to where she’d been sitting.

  “Will this never end? Hannah promise me you will be careful. He was Elizabeth’s father… You may still be a target.”

  “I know.” That knowledge left her feeling more alone and vulnerable than she would have thought possible a few days ago.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Reverend Martyn Jones was already in the side street café they had arranged to meet in when he had got back to her on Friday. Easy to spot, as he was the only person wearing a clerical collar, she walked over to him, noticing he had picked a table in the far corner which couldn’t be seen from the outside. He had taken the seat with its back to the wall.

  He stood up and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you at last, Hannah.”

  At last? What had Paul been saying?

  “Patrick Ryan was a good friend of mine.” That sentence said so much and yet so little. Where had he been when Patrick needed a friend?

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Even to Hannah’s ears that comment seemed trite but what do you say?

  Hannah sat down and they ordered coffee from the waitress who had sidled up looking bored and miserable.

  “Hope she doesn’t curdle the milk.” The priest laughed at the expression on Hannah’s face. “Sorry, sometimes I don’t realise I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.”

  “That could be awkward in your job.”

  “It is – but there are times when it works to my advantage.” Martyn had an engaging smile that made him immediately look younger. She assumed he was in his forties. His mousey hair, cut fairly short, showed some grey at the temples.

  The coffee arrived.

  “I hope I didn’t upset you with my letter,” he said without preamble. “As you no doubt can imagine I counsel all sorts of inmates. Not all are criminals. If they are on remand they may be innocent, as are some who have been tried and found guilty. Many use the chapel just as a place to sit and reflect. I like to give them that space. The noise in the communal areas and,” he paused as though choosing his words carefully, “a shared prison cell isn’t conducive to introspection.”

  Hannah couldn’t even begin to imagine how Paul had coped with incarceration. He had always prized his privacy and never liked to be tied down. He took care with his appearance and dressed immaculately. Communal showers and a loo in a shared cell would have horrified him. How he must have hated it. Then she thought of his involvement with the people behind all the killings and all her sympathy vanished.

  “You said in your letter that you hadn’t thought Paul was suicidal?”

  “He wasn’t. He was not depressed but he was despondent about his situation which was only natural, and he was full of remorse for what he had done.”

  Hannah could feel herself going hot then cold. Her stomach was gripped in a spasm of remembered fear.

  “Hannah, are you ok?” His hand covered hers on the table. “Hannah?”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Please don’t apologise. It was remiss of me. I should have thought about what I was saying. Those memories must be horrifying for you.”

  Hannah nodded. He gave her a moment to collect herself.

  “Anyway. Paul was definitely not thought of as a suicide risk. And I never had the impression that he would consider such a terrible thing.” He paused to drink some coffee, before dropping his bombshell.

  “I believe he was killed to prevent him testifying.”

  The cup Hannah had been holding clattered on to the saucer causing several people to turn and look at them. “But – I don’t understand.” So Mike was right.

  “It was made to look like he’d taken his own life. Relatively easily done, I’m afraid, even inside a prison.”

  He had signalled to the waitress and two more coffees appeared along with a glass of water for Hannah.

  “As I mentioned I cannot betray what was told to me in confidence. But Paul did give me your contact details. I got the strong impression he was frightened. At first I thought that was a natural reaction to being in prison. Then I realised it was more than that. He was convinced something would happen to him.”

  “But why didn’t the prison officers protect him?” Will all this never end? she thought. Evidently MI5 had not caught all the perpetrators as they had claimed. Or as both DI Claudia Turner and Tom had assured her.

  “I’ve already said more than I should have. I wanted you to know, to be on your guard.” He watched her face. She had a little more colour now.

  “You’ve been through so much already. I hope you have a good support network. If you ever want to talk – about anything – I’d be happy to meet up.”

  “Will this come out at the inquest?”

  He stared at his hands. “I shouldn’t think so.” They were both quiet for a moment.

  “Well you’re not the first to tell me this.” The chaplain, she noticed, didn’t look surprised. “I couldn’t really believe it the first time but now –” she fiddled with the sugar spoon. “This is the second suspicious prison death I’ve heard about within a few days.”

  “Oh – was the other one someone you knew?”

  “Yes, the someone who had held a gun to my baby daughter’s head.” She forced the memory away. “I was told that it was probably not natural causes as reported. Two people who threatened my daughter’s life are dead. Prisons don’t seem to be very safe or healthy places.”

  “They’re not. At least not in my experience. They are noisy and oppressive with an undercurrent of violence waiting to erupt. And that’s on a good day.” He smiled. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Hannah.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go now. But contact me any time.”

  They both stood up and Martyn left some cash on the table. “How are you getting back?”

  Hannah swallowed hard. “I have an appointment with Paul’s solicitor in town so I’ll get the tube.”

  As they shook hands, Martyn said, “Peace be with you and may the Lord keep you and your daughter safe.” It didn’t sound as reassuring as it should have, Hannah thought, walking off in differ
ent direction to the chaplain, and wondering what new revelations would be in store for her. What papers had Paul left with his solicitor?

  What a complete idiot Paul had been.

  The solicitor’s office was just off Chancery Lane. Hannah had taken the Victoria line from Brixton changing at Green Park for the Piccadilly Line to Holborn. Mid-morning there were plenty of seats available. But still someone sat next to her – too closely and she remembered the journey she’d made not that long ago from King’s Cross to Waterloo dressed in old charity shop clothes so as to blend in with the homeless community in the Bull Ring. Everyone had given her a wide berth then.

  She emerged at Holborn and took her bearings. What she hadn’t realised was that the road she wanted was at the far end of Chancery Lane. She wished she had put on shoes more comfortable for walking in and set off at a brisk pace.

  The white building housing the solicitor’s offices was well-maintained with window boxes almost overflowing with early pansies. The offices were on the first floor. A receptionist greeted her and phoned through to Neville Rogers who came out to meet her. He was younger than she’d imagined from his voice. Just an inch or so taller than her, he clutched her hand and she noticed the nicotine stains on his fingers. His office was medium-sized. Light and airy. No smell of cigarettes to Hannah’s relief.

  “Please sit down, Ms Weybridge.” He fussed about with some papers on his desk, coughed and then, as though to delay what he had to say, offered her tea or coffee.

  “No thank you,” Hannah replied. She waited.

  Rogers coughed again. “You may or may not know that Paul Montague’s assets were frozen when he was put on remand. It will take some time to sort all that out. He did, however, ask me to organise some life assurance a while ago which I did. His daughter…” Hannah bristled at the use of that word but was aware that Rogers was watching her reaction and said nothing. “Elizabeth is the sole beneficiary of that money. It will be held in trust for her until she is eighteen.”

  Hannah was about to say that she didn’t want his money but of course it wasn’t hers to reject. It was Elizabeth’s. “Are there any conditions?”